Time Out

I'll be having right knee replacement surgery this week.  I had my left knee done last year with very satisfactory results.  But, I must say, I'm glad I'm not a centipede!  I've been reminiscing about my last surgery by reading this old post: Me, My Knee, and Feline Therapy. 

As soon as I'm able, I'll post the conclusion to "The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado."  I thought I'd get it posted before surgery, but I've had entirely too much to do to get ready for this little hospital visit.  Anyway - I'll be back soon.

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part Two

                                                        The pen of preference for me and my college friends was Sheaffer's inexpensive cartridge fountain pen.  This was a capped pen - not a desk pen - and it went everywhere with me.  Cartridge pens were a new innovation, popular for their convenience.  But note-taking students could go through a box of cartridges in a short period of time, and this could be a drain on the purse.

A fellow classmate introduced me to the practice of refilling cartridges with a needle and syringe.  A fairly inexpensive bottle of Sheaffer ink would refill countless cartridges.  After four or five refills, a cartridge had to be discarded because the opening that fit on the pen nib would become enlarged which could mean a leaky pen.  Even so, this method stretched our cartridge allowance.  Of course, we could have alleviated our ink budget problems considerably by using cheap ball point pens.  But, as fountain pen devotees, we couldn't bring ourselves do descend to the level of an uninspired ball point.

Lots of things have improved over the years, but it seems to me that the quality of common, everyday paper declined during the 1950s and 60s.  No longer could you use your fountain pen on a lot of dime store tablets without having the ink feather or bleed.  "Feathering" is when the ink travels to places it shouldn't go, producing a broad, blurry line instead of a fine, distinct one.  "Bleeding" is when the ink goes through to the other side of the paper.

Due to this decline in the quality of ordinary paper, fountain pen lovers had to choose to either retire their fountain pens or go to specialty shops to buy better, more expensive paper.  Those who could afford it, sprung for the expensive paper for letters of importance; but they still had to resort to the common ball point for such mundane tasks as making out the grocery list. 

to be continued . . .

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part One

Few of my friends and acquaintances know about my penchant for fountain pens.  I don't bore them with the knowledge since most people today have no interest in fountain pens.  Young people don't know what they are.  But my memories of fountain pens go way back.

According to the dictionary, "a man of letters" is one who is devoted to literary  activities.  By this definition, my mother was definitely "a woman of letters."  She was an avid reader and always preferred big, thick novels about families and old houses.  She had a beautiful handwriting and was a gifted writer.  She kept a journal all of her life until a stroke took away her ability to write.  She persisted for a while after the stroke, but eventually stopped.  Her last poignant journal entry is an unrecognizable scrawl that trails off in mid-sentence, never to be resumed.  My mother died eleven years ago, and I still can't look at that last journal entry without weeping.

When I was a child, my parents' gift to most high school graduates who sent them an announcement was an Esterbrook desk fountain pen exactly like the one Mama used.  I was usually with her when she made her annual trip to the office supply in downtown Panama City, Florida, to purchase these gifts.  The pen base was formed in a rounded shape.  It was heavy and shiny black.  The pen was black except for the end opposite the writing nib.  This end was tapered to a point and made of clear plastic.  It looked like crystal, or so I thought at the time.

An Esterbrook desk pen symbolized adulthood to me.  I understood perfectly that children did not use fountain pens.  My mother firmly believed that one person should not use another person's fountain pen.  She thought that in time, a fountain pen adjusts itself to the angle at which the writer holds it.  A different writer, holding the pen at a different angle, might spoil the pen for its owner.  Mama thought it was bad manners to ask to borrow someone's fountain pen.

Mama's desk pen always held Sheaffer's "Peacock Blue" ink.  It was her trademark.  It's a turquoise blue, or maybe "aqua" describes it better.  It may have reminded Mama of the gorgeous aqua color of the Gulf of Mexico - an appropriate ink color for the many letters dispatched from Panama City to relatives in the mountains of West Virginia.

By the time I was a teenager, the annual pilgrimages to the office supply had stopped.  I didn't think much about it at the time.  Like most teenagers, my attention was focused on my own affairs, and I had ceased to accompany my mother on her errands.  I have learned since that Esterbrook stopped making fountain pens sometime during the 1950s.  And that, of course, explains why I did not receive an Esterbrook desk pen when I graduated from high school in 1964.

to be continued . . .



Rain, Rain

Don't get me wrong.  I am not complaining.  We've had so many drought spells over the last few years, I'd be ashamed to complain.  At times we've seen the pasture so dry that the ground was cracking.  We would sit in the barn aisle and watch the horses paw the earth, making big clouds of dust.  We've run sprinklers in the pasture in an attempt to preserve some grass for the critters and paid big water bills as a result. 

So - you won't hear me complaining about rain - and we've been having it almost every day for a while now.  But I am amazed at how short my memory is.  I had forgotten that when you get a lot of rain, all the vegetation that you want to grow certainly does improve; but the weeds suck up the rain and grow twice as fast as the good stuff grows. 

Even if you like weed eating, mowing, etc., some days it's impossible to do because it won't stop raining.  When there is a little break in the rain, it's too wet and squishy to do anything. 

And then there's mud.  I really had forgotten about mud - it's been so long since we've had long rainy spells.  I'm getting a refresher course now.  The ground around the horses watering trough is a mass of ooey, gooey, sticky, icky mud. 

The flower pots on the deck already looked bad from the previous drought conditions.  (I've already told you - I'm not a gardener.)  Now they're really a sight to see.  Just when the portulaca, miniature rose, Blue Daze, and the herbs were beginning to look a little better because they're getting some water - big healthy weedy vines have sprung up in the ground around the deck.  They're sending their evil tendrils up on the deck to attack what's in the pots - and what's in the pots is no match for them! 

I usually just walk across the deck on my way to the barn.  I don't pay much attention to the plants.  They probably think they're invisible.  But yesterday even I couldn't ignore a poor Blue Daze under attack from one of the vines.  Tendrils were wrapped around and around it's poor branches.  Baby vines had sprung up in the pot with the Blue Daze.  You don't have these evil super-weeds in a drought.  But of course, in a drought, the favored plants barely survive for lack of a gardner - but that's another story.

Two or three days of sun would be nice.  It would give us a chance to dry out and beat the jungle vegetation back.  But I'm definitely not complaining. 

Day Trip



Iberville Visitors Center - Main Building


We decided to do some rambling today, so we took care of the barn chores early this morning. We packed our camera equipment and set out for Breaux Bridge.

On the way we stopped at the Iberville Visitors Center, located near I-10 in Gross Tete.  It opened a little over a year ago, and today was our first visit.  We drank complimentary coffee and chatted with the two friendly ladies who work there.  The inside is as beautiful as the outside.   Cypress floors, doors, and paneling make it a reflection of the nearby Atchafalaya Swamp.


Iberville Visitors Center - Grounds

We traveled on to Breaux Bridge and decided to make the short trip out to Lake Martin.  We drove along the gravel road that runs along the swampy edge of the lake.  I was hoping to see an alligator, so we stopped when we came to a break in the foliage where we had a good view of the swamp. 

I saw bubbles in the water and remembered that Willie, on Swamp People, is always talking about where you see bubbles, there is usually an alligator.  But I'll swear, I couldn't see anything but a couple of old knarly pieces of wood in the water.  Just as I was complaining that we weren't going to see any gators, I realized that the knarly pieces of wood were two alligators - one of them looking me in the eye from just a few feet away.  He was nice enough to sit still so I could get his picture.

Alligator Disguised as Driftwood!

We went farther down the road and discovered that there is a new Lake Martin Visitors Center, complete with a picnic pavilion and state of the art rest rooms.  Now if you've ever been to Lake Martin, you will appreciate what a great thing this is!  We used to have to drive back into Breaux Bridge to find a public rest room which meant we couldn't stay out at the lake for hours on end.  Now we will be able to pack a picnic lunch and spend the day at the lake, watching the wildlife and taking pictures.  I think we'll wait for cooler weather though.

Boardwalk through the Swamp

We walked the quarter mile boardwalk through the swamp, but didn't see anything as exciting as our two gator friends up the road.

Swamp as Seen from the Boardwalk

We had some good Cajun food for lunch at Poche's, a Breaux Bridge meat market and restaurant which was recently featured in Garden & Gun magazine.  After lunch we did some looking around in one of the antique shops in the historic district of Breaux Bridge.  I like to check these places out for old post cards, stationery, and desk paraphernalia.  But I didn't have any luck today.

When we took the Gross Tete exit to head home, we decided to make one last stop at a new gift shop called The Swamp Shop, right across the road from the Iberville Visitors Center.  In fact, the ladies at the Visitors Center had told us about this new gift shop when we made our first stop there this morning.

Jean Crites, the proprietor of The Swamp Shop is very friendly and welcoming.  And her shop is something to see!  Since it's in a house, I assumed the owners probably lived there and had a one room gift shop.  But no, the shop takes up the entire house.  All the merchandise has a Louisiana theme.  Each room is artfully arranged and decorated, and it's a pleasure to stroll around and look.  I stocked up on post cards to send to my pen pals.  Jerry found two books he wanted, and I couldn't resist a beautiful glass fleur de lis necklace.  I'm already thinking that this might be a good place to do some Christmas shopping.

English Campaign Desk with Improvements

It's always fun to make a good thing better.  That's what we've done with the English campaign desk that I reviewed in an earlier post.  Jerry installed the eye screws and chain, shown in the photo at left, with a little bit of help from me.  It was his idea to use jewelry chain with a clasp on each end so the chain can be easily removed if there's ever a reason to do so.  The chain keeps the stationery holder section of the box upright so that it doesn't flop down and spill all your stationery.  When the stationery holder section is closed the chain drops into the little compartment as shown in the photo below.

I also added some green blotter paper to the sloped writing section.  I attached it with removeable double-faced tape. The blotter paper protects the wood and makes a slightly padded writing surface. 

In the photo below you'll notice that I've placed a blue coaster under the hinged clasp to keep it from marring the surface of whatever table or desk the campaign desk is sitting on when I'm writing.  This blue coaster was all I could find around the house to serve this purpose, but I'm on the lookout for something that will look better with the green blotter.

I've already written quite a few letters and post cards on this campaign desk.  Thank goodness I'm actually using it.  I don't need any more what-nots!

In Defense of Mediocrity

At an early age, I got the mistaken idea that the only choices in life are to do things perfectly or not to do them at all. 

A wise woman once told me I was a perfectionist.  I laughed and told her she didn't know me.  I assured her that I seldom do things perfectly.  Then she gave me a real jolt by saying, "I don't mean that you do everything perfectly.  I mean that you're waiting to do anything until you can do it perfectly."  I've never forgotten her, and it took me a long time to forgive her.  Her comment irritated me for years until I finally admitted to myself that it was true, and that my worship of perfectionism was literally paralyzing me.

No doubt a high degree of excellence must be maintained in some areas - like brain surgery. But when it comes to the nuts and bolts of life, there's a lot to be said for mediocrity.

The modern world has given mediocrity a bum rap.  Today if someone says your performance at some skill is mediocre, you feel insulted.  And you should because mediocre often means inferior.  Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary defines mediocre or mediocrity as "of moderate or low value, ordinary, so-so." The dictionary app on my iPhone pulls no punches and just comes right out and calls it "inferior."

Far be it from me to argue with the dictionary, but when I read these definitions, I said, "Bull!"  Something told me that mediocrity wasn't always a word of ill repute.

I lugged out the 1828 edition of The American Dictionary of the English Language by Noah Webster. I bought this dictionary a few years ago just for these wordy occasions.

 
Here's how Noah Webster defined mediocrity 1828:
1. A middle state or degree; a moderate degree or rate. A mediocrity of condition is most favorable to morals and happiness. A mediocrity of talents well employed will generally ensure respectability.

"Men of age seldom drive business home to the full period, but content themselves with a mediocrity of success." Bacon

2. Moderation; temperance.

"We owe obedience to the law of reason, which teacheth mediocrity in meats and drinks." Hooker

It appears to me that since 1828, mediocrity has gone from a virtue to a vice.  Yes, I know - language changes - it evolves.  Even so, there's something sinister about a perfectly respectable word evolving to the point that it means the opposite of what it once meant.

I think this is an indication that we humans have become full of ourselves.  We've got to be the best, have the most, climb to the top of the heap. 

I think Robinson Crusoe's father gave him some good advice.  He told his son that a middle state in life is best. The middle state isn't exposed to the hardships and sufferings of the poor, and neither is it "embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy of the upper part of mankind."  In other words, Robinson Crusoe's old papa was a believer in mediocrity in the classic sense.  So am I.

Lately we've been putting mediocrity into practice right here on Bywater Farm.  We've committed ourselves to fifteen minutes of de-cluttering every day - a mediocre commitment to be sure.  But we're accomplishing more than we ever did with the "Gung ho!  We're going to devote a week (or two or three) to getting this place cleared out and ship-shape!"  Long live mediocrity!